


Score More Goals

by insomniacjams



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8970076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniacjams/pseuds/insomniacjams
Summary: A quick summary of Patrik Laine's rookie season up to 12/11 when Patrik scores a goal on his own team, and the events that take place that night.





	

**Author's Note:**

> working title: how Blake Wheeler is going to break the Finnish Hockey Robot v 2.0
> 
> On Dec 11, 2015 Patirk Laine of the Winnipeg Jets scored a game-winning goal for the opposing team, Edmonton Oilers. You can watch the goal [here](https://streamable.com/fzhi). The important part is Wheeler consoling him on the bench after like the great captain he is. If you don't want to see the goal, [this](https://gfycat.com/MedicalGratefulGaur) is Wheeler hugging Laine after the flub.
> 
> In the interview after the game, he mentions Blake Wheeler is like a father to him. You can watch the full interview [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppQYYLJD94&feature=youtu.be&t=8m27s) (but this links directly to the aforementioned comment).
> 
> Anyway, a bit of writer's block and one own goal later, I've got this.  
> Not beta-read and I'll definitely revisit this pair another day.
> 
> So here's some insight on FInnish Hockey Robot v 2.0, Patrik Laine.

Patrik talks out the corner of his mouth. He mumbles, like, all the time. The guys used to make fun of it, a long time ago, so he gritted his teeth and scored more goals. It faded after a while, when he converted chewing the corner of his lip into the back corners of the nets. If life had corners, Patrik would take them tight. He'd cross his legs, one skate next to another like a speed skater coming down the track – he'd turn the corner tight as he could, for the fastest way to the only thing he knew.

Score more goals.

He finds the back of the net most days like a niffler to glittery objects. He holds on tight to his hands, keeps them close to his chest, chews the corner of his lip, talks out the corner of his mouth, and keeps his turns on the ice tight as he can. He smiles out the corner of his mouth too. He tries too hard not to think about it, tries to use both sides of his face, but it's not his top priority.

Score more goals.

He arrives in Winnipeg with a heavy head and hooded eyes. He's got one bag of hockey stuff, not enough stuff but it'll do for now. He's got another bag of boring things – toothbrush, some clothes. He wears a Team Finland ball cap and white t-shirt through the airport. Nobody looks at him like he's the next Teemu Selanne here. Not yet, he thinks.

He's got to score more goals.

So he does. He notches a goal and an assist on opening night, and his chest swells with love for this city that hasn't yet learned to love him back. He's here, ready to tighten his corners and brighten his smile. Maybe this year, he'll stop talking out the corners of his mouth. He goes the next two game without a blip on the scoreboard, so he buckles down. He trains harder. Wheeler yells at him one day, "Get off the ice, kid. Save some for the game." Patrik's supposed to listen because he's the captain. He gets off the ice and goes to the gym and then follows Wheeler home for dinner.

He's got to score more goals.

Patrik scores his first NHL hat trick on October 19 against Toronto, helping in the comeback from the 4-1 deficit to win the game 5-4 in overtime. The first goal finds him flipping his mouthguard from the corner of his mouth. They're still down by two. His second goal ties the game; down on one knee, robotic – celly, it's muscle memory. His teeth come down hard on his mouthguard, spilling from the corner of his mouth. It's natural. He bites again, and keeps going.

He scores the game winning goal in overtime.

Arms up, celly like it's muscle memory – hug Ehlers – mouthguard out. He's got the routine down. It goes fine from there. He doesn't cut back his gym hours, but he gets off the ice less reluctantly after practice now. He goes over to Wheeler's place for a BBQ and eats the steak from the corner of his mouth. He smiles when he's supposed to smile and scores goals when he's supposed to score goals. Winnipeg isn't Tampere, but that's why he's starting to like it.

After Toronto, they lost a couple games. He puts up two goals against Dallas. They win that one, and another, then lose a few more where he's kept off the scoreboard. As it goes. He notches a goal and an assist against Detroit; he gets really good at using his media face and answering questions a bit faster. He still smiles with the corner of his mouth. He tries not to think about it too hard.

Keep scoring goals.

He follows Wheeler home for dinner.

The Jets win, the Jets lose, then Patrik gets his second NHL hat trick against Dallas. Wheel, snipe, celly – mouthguard out, muscle memory. Hug Ehlers. Teeth down, corner of his mouth. He smiles a bit, still sideways, and the hats come down. The second goal had been number ten of the season, his first time into double digits. It's a big deal, or something. Post-game interviews up. Smile more. Try not to talk out the corner of his mouth. No mouthguard. Right. Keep going.

Keep scoring goals.

He follows Wheeler home for dinner.

Eat, sleep, hockey. Win, lose in overtime, then win some more. Score a goal, win a couple, lose a few. Eat, sleep, hockey, repeat. As it goes. He scores two against Edmonton the second time they meet during the season. He smiles, from the corner of his mouth, at Puljujarvi. They lose the game anyway. Eat, sleep, hockey, rinse and repeat. Win, lose, lose some more, then they're back on the ice against Edmonton for the third time this season.

Patrik Laine slaps the puck, straight past Hellebuyck and into his own net.

Hands up, celly. Muscle memory.

Wait.

Shit.

The cameras are switching between him and Letestu, whose rebound he'd been trying to clear. Letestu will get credit for the goal. Media face; it's game day. Mouthguard out. Teeth down. Don't cry on the bench, muscle memory. The rest of the game passes in a blur. It's the game winner. The game winning goal. Mouth down, don't smile. Mouthguard out. Walk of shame. They've lost. He's done this enough times too, but not here. Everything's new and shiny, even him. His shoulder still feels hot from where Wheeler's glove had gripped him tight. He hadn't heard a word through the rush of the crowd, or the crashing in his head.

"Y'know, this wasn't what I meant when I said I'd score more goals," He says weakly.

"You look like you just skated over a puppy, chill out," Ehlers calls from across the room. Patrik blanches. 

"You have media," Wheeler says. "Put your face back on." Patrik feels the colour return to his cheeks. 

"Huh," Ehlers observes. 

Patrik keeps his face on. He talks to the reporters. They ask him about the most influential guy in the room, and he tells them Wheeler's been like a dad to him. It's not a lie. Patrik doesn't think he's been programmed very well at lying, so he avoids it, mostly. 

Wheeler's waiting, actually, hands in his pockets, watching the media like a hawk. Patrik wonders if he's the baby bird in this scenario. Patrik makes himself stop wondering. He follows Wheeler out like a lost puppy, because he thinks he's supposed to. He follows him to the bus, to the plane, to the window seat where he's boxed in easily, his long legs folding and knees knocking into the back of Ehlers' seat in front of him.

It's late when they get back to Winnipeg. Patrik would make a joke that it's past his bedtime, but he hasn't made a joke in a few hours now. He hasn't opened his mouth at all since he's left Edmonton, scared of what might come out when there aren't cameras trained on him. 

Once, a long time ago, someone in Finland made a comparison between him and Ovechkin. It wasn't the end of the world. Young hockey players get compared to veterans all the time. He took it with dignity and poise. And then, they were saying, his head is too big, his ego's inflated – and he took it and ran with it. He kept his chin up. It became second nature to talk about the goals he's scored and say he'll score more. 

The comparisons are better when you want them.

It's almost -40 in Winnipeg when they land. Patrik wants to call a cab and curl up in bed and never get up. Patrik wants to regain the feeling in his toes and drink coffee even though it's past midnight and maybe Skype his mom and cry a little bit. Patrik doesn't do any of these things. Patrik follows Wheeler to his car instead, his feet moving on their own, packed snow crunching under his sneakers. His breath comes out in puffs of steam, and when he gets in the car, his skin burns red like fire.

Wheeler drives with his hands at two and ten like a good old Canadian boy. Patrik stares unseeingly at the road and waits. Wheeler also offers him coffee like a good old Canadian boy – even if it's too late for coffee and any sort of serious discussion. Patrik follows him through the kitchen where he drinks about a litre of water, follows him up the stairs where Wheeler shows him the bathroom and the extra towels like Patrik hasn't been here before – follows him to the bedroom. 

Patrik waits.

Wheeler sits on the bed, and waits, equally still. Patrik's hands start shaking. "Ehlers is trying to call you," Wheelers says. He's holding Patrik's phone – Patrik doesn't know when he got that. "You should probably answer it."

"Hello?" His voice wavers. He swallows.

"Did you make it home okay?" Ehlers asks. Patrik appreciates his linemates checking up on him, really, he does. He wants to hang up on him.

"I'm home," he says, which isn't the truth, but it isn't a lie either, not really, since he's with Wheeler. 

"Alright, just making sure-" There's a lot of words left unsaid. "Get a good sleep, Laine." Patrik nods, then remembers Ehlers can't see him.

"Yes, you too," he says, and then tosses the phone across the room. He might regret it later (no, he probably won't). Wheeler sighs. 

"Can you sleep?" He asks. Patrik shrugs. He's used to sleeping on the road, his knees pressed up to the seat in front of him, head tilting dangerously to the side, neck muscles strained. He's used to folding himself small and hunching his shoulders and sleeping because he's supposed to. He shrugs again. 

"Probably."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Wheeler asks. Patrik doesn't know what 'it' is anymore- he doesn't know if Wheeler's talking about why he denied coffee at one in the morning, why he's not more visibly upset, or why he keeps following him home since that first time he'd been invited for dinner back when he'd first arrived in Winnipeg. He doesn't think he knows enough words in English to untangle the jumbled emotions that stutter across his face.

He shakes his head.

"Okay," Wheeler says. And then he slowly moves around Patrik – strips off his dress shirt and pants like he's removing a second layer of skin, like underneath there's a whole other person waiting to be found. Patrik likes to watch Wheeler undress, though he averts his eyes in the locker room. Here in the bedroom, he thinks its fine. 

Here, he watches Wheeler move like he's comfortable in his own skin, like his insides match his outsides, moving fluidly like he fits his body. He's about the same height as Patrik, and a bit heavier. Patrik thinks one day he'd like to fit his own bones the way Wheeler does.

"You're staring," Wheeler says.

"Sorry," Patrik says. He's not though.

"Don’t apologize when you don't mean it," Wheeler says, like he can see through Patrik. Sometimes, Patrik thinks he really can, and then other times, he thinks Wheeler really has no idea at all. And honestly, it's probably true- Wheeler's 30 now, which is a long 12 years from 18. Wheeler is a whole other generation, and when Patrik thinks about that, his mouth twists downwards guiltily at one corner and his stomach turns, just a little bit. He tries not to think too hard about what his father would say if he knew.

"Okay," Patrik says.

"Get in bed," Wheeler demands in his captain voice. Something stirs deep inside Patrik's chest, and he obeys easily, peeling off his suit and sliding between the bed and the warm duvet, his arm knocking into Wheeler's. "Don't think we aren't going to talk about this tomorrow," Wheeler says.

"I know," Patrik says. "You're almost asleep right now."

"And you aren't?" Wheeler asks, and Patrik shifts a bit, rolls over until he's almost on top of his captain. 

"I'm okay," Patrik says. "You, are uh," he pauses, like he's not sure about the words coming from his own lips. "You're an old man though, so-"

"Now you're just being mean," Wheeler says, but his voice is light and the harsh words don't match his tone. Patrik bites the side of his lip, at the corner of his mouth. He's never been good with situations like this. Wheeler reaches a hand up from the bed, and brushes that lip. Patrik lets his teeth go.

"Wheeler, what-"

"My name is Blake," he chuckles.

"Blake Wheeler," Patrik corrects himself, and Wheeler- Blake- laughs, like he's not so tired anymore. They're close, really close. They've shared a bed before, touching like this, limbs tangled and hearts racing. Patrik thinks they've done it one too many times now for it to be an accident, but he keeps coming back – keeps following Wheeler home. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sleeping," Wheeler says, but he's laughing when he says it, so Patrik pokes him in the belly, feeling his muscles tense and relax again as he does.

"I don’t think so," he says.

"Well I'm trying to," Wheeler says, "but there's a thing in my bed, and it's kind of in my way."

"I guess I could, like, be less in your way," Patrik says, and tries to pull back, but Wheeler's arm is anchoring him in place, deadweight on his side. "Or maybe not," he says, but he's not struggling against it, not really.

"You're never in the way though, really," Wheeler says, suddenly serious, and Patrik shrugs. 

"I know." It's not cocky, it's the truth. He knows he's always welcome here.

"I know you know, but maybe I just like saying it," Wheeler says, reaching up to brush some of Patrik's hair from his face. "I mean it though, we're talking about this tomorrow."

"Okay," Patrik agrees. 

"You are though, right? Okay, I mean." Wheeler's warm against Patrik's side. Patrik thinks about this for a minute. He thinks about Wheeler's heartbeat, about his arm around his shoulders on the bench, about the third period and the game-winning goal. He thinks about scoring more goals.

"I will be."

"Good," Wheeler says as Patrik yawns. "Now you're tired," he scoffs.

"Wheeler," Patrik starts, and he gets laughed at instead.

"Why won't you call me Blake?" Patrik shrugs.

"Feels weird… Captain." Wheeler's whole body tenses.

"Right," Wheeler sighs, "Wheeler's fine, let's leave the, uh, Captain for another day." Patrik grins wide, from the corner of his mouth. 

"I love your smile. That's cute," Wheeler says unashamed, leaning in for a quick goodnight kiss.

"You're cute," Patrik retorts.

"That's a terrible chirp," Wheeler says.

"It's not a chirp, it's the truth," Patrik says, because he can chirp sure, it's a part of the game, but mostly he just scores goals and lets the scoreboard do the talking for him. Once he's off the ice, the screen goes back up. Muscle memory comes down. It's easier like this, when it's the truth and nothing but the truth. Easy, when Wheeler's soft eyes find his own.

"You're really okay?" He asks.

"I'm okay," Patrik assures him, because he is, he's okay now.

"Now what are you going to do?" Wheeler asks, a yawn stretching over his face.

Patrik grins from the corner of his mouth, unrepentant, as his eyelids begin to slip closed. "Score more goals."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
